


while the rhythm of the rain keeps time

by lucifucker



Series: baby, come home [2]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Death Fic, Grief, M/M, Well - Freeform, emotionally constipated andy hurley, follow up death fic, mild sex occurs, soft nature angsting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:15:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can't shut down.” Patrick says, with the light streaming in through the window of the hospital room, and the steady beep of his heart monitor keeping time. “When I'm gone, you can't shut them out.”</p><p> </p><p>sequel to my last fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	while the rhythm of the rain keeps time

The cabin smells stale and mildewy, and is exactly the way Andy remembers it, one room, one bed, little stove and sink in the corner, wooden table at a slant because one of the legs is uneven. He flicks the light switch by the door, and the bulb hanging from the ceiling flickers, twice, before going out. The bed creaks, loudly, as he sets his bags down on it, and he resigns himself to not getting quite as much sleep as he'd hoped.

 

There's a layer of dust over every available surface, and when Andy walks across the cabin, it swirls around the space he's left, catching on the sunlight thats drifting through the windows. He opens up the cabinet above the sink and finds a kerosine lantern and a box of matches on the top shelf that he definitely didn't put there.

 

It takes him a while to get the thing lit, because it's old, and a little rusted, and because he has no fucking idea how a kerosine lamp works, but he manages it, and after a little more digging, finds the bottle of extra fluid that goes with it. The soft yellow light illuminates the cabin, brighter than the light of the slowly setting sun.

 

Everything inside is silent and still, and everything outside is the rustle of the leaves and the chirp of crickets, and Andy closes his eyes and just listens, and feels, and doesn't think.

 

It's really better if he doesn't think.

 

–

 

“ _You can't shut down.” Patrick says, with the light streaming in through the window of the hospital room, and the steady beep of his heart monitor keeping time. “When I'm gone, you can't shut them out.”_

 

_Andy stares at the thin blue blanket where their fingers are linked at the edge of the bed, looks at the stark contrast of his rough, tattooed hands next to Patrick's pale, delicate ones, and shakes his head._

 

“ _You're not going anywhere.” Patrick's fingers twitch, and when Andy looks up, his face is drawn, and sincere, and Andy hates it, because it's the face he makes when he knows he's right._

 

_They're quiet for a long time, with Patrick gazing down at Andy, and Andy pretending he's not about to throw up, and then Patrick shakes his head._

 

“ _You can't.” He says, again, and lets go of Andy's hand, and Andy feels the absence of warmth start to sink into his chest._

 

_He wonders if it'll ever stop getting deeper._

 

–

 

The sun has fully set, now, and when he goes out on the porch the woods are lit by the glow moon and the stars, fully visible in a way they never really are in the city. Andy looks up and sees constellations he hasn't been able to recognize in years, living in the apartment, manages to make out the Big Dipper and Leo just standing there staring up at the sky before his phone starts buzzing inside.

 

He picks it up off the table, and Joe's smiling face is on his screen, bright, and happy, and Andy presses end before he can think about it.

 

There's a pause, and then a text comes through.

 

_Where are you? Are you okay?_

 

He puts it back down, and turns around, crouching down and starting to unpack his bags, the little pots and pans they'd bought for camping a few years ago, cans of beans and vegetable soups, a bag of rice. Enough to last him a few weeks, if he times it right.

 

The phone buzzes again, and he picks it up without hesitation.

 

 _Come home_.

 

He walks over to the sink, and starts to fill the pot with water. If he doesn't eat the rice first, it'll end up full of bugs, and even he doesn't want to eat around those.

 

Another buzz, but this time, Andy doesn't look at it.

 

–

 

“ _What are we gonna do, when he's gone?” Joe asks, tentatively, his fingertips trailing up and down Andy's back, and Andy presses his face into the crook of his neck, inhaling deep the scent of old cologne and freshly washed clothes that screams Joe._

 

“ _He's not going.” He murmurs, and feels Joe's soft, sharp intake of breath, the way his fingers freeze._

 

“ _Baby--” He starts, and Andy shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth._

 

“ _He's not.”_ He can't. _“He'll make it.”_ He has to.

 

_Joe's quiet, after that, but he holds Andy a little closer, slides an arm around his waist, and curls his fingers tightly around his hip._

 

_Andy wonders if he's afraid that he'll leave, too._

 

_Andy wonders if he will._

 

–

 

The next morning Andy wakes up at eight, and there are fourteen missed calls, five voicemail messages, and ten texts from Joe alone. He eats the leftover rice from last night, and walks down to the creek.

 

The water's cold, but not freezing, and he walks along the edge for about half a mile before he finds a place where a little waterfall pours into a deeper pool, about twenty feet in each direction, before continuing down the mountain.

 

He strips down and steps in, pausing to take in the way his body reacts to the cold, the little shiver it sends down his spine as he sinks down into the water, sitting down on the rocks that make up the stream bed. The farther in he goes, the higher on his chest the surface hits, until he's at the very depth of the pool, where the water hits his neck and his feet hit the bottom. It's clear, and clean, and Andy can see every stone and trapped leaf underneath him.

 

The outcropping of rocks across from him looks familiar, and when he swims over, he realizes its because he's been here, before, when he and Joe last came to the cabin, probably four years ago. It had been farther into the summer, and the water had been warmer, warm enough that Joe had finally agreed, after a really ridiculous amount of whining on Andy's part, to go swimming with him. They'd sat on that rock, after, basking in the sun as it pierced through the trees, and Joe had laid back, with his head on Andy's chest, and kissed his jaw even though he said Andy was colder than he was.

 

The thought of it sends pangs of something like pain into his stomach, and he dives back down under the surface, letting the shock of the cold on his face take him over, and clear his head.

 

He stays there for an immeasurable amount of time, swimming aimlessly around and floating on his back, staring up at the canopy of leaves above him, and sinking into the feeling of being weightless, of being bodiless, of being part of the forest and nothing more.

 

By the time he leaves, it's well past noon, judging by where the sun is, and when he gets back to the cabin, the door is open.

 

There's no question of who it is, no one else it could possibly be, so Andy doesn't even pretend to be surprised when he walks in and Matt is sitting on the bed, scrolling through his—no, not his, _Andy's_ phone. He looks up as Andy walks inside, and blinks, before going back to the phone.

 

“ _Where are you?_ ” Mix reads, as Andy shucks his wet shoes at the door, and throws his towel up over the rafter. “ _Everything's happening so fast_.” Andy pulls off his shirt, and rubs his hair with it one last time before draping it over the nearest chair. “ _Andy,_ _ **please**_ _._ ” The last one is said with more emphasis, and Andy's chest clenches.

 

“That's enough.” He snaps, and Matt looks up at him, eyebrows raised, his expression almost incredulous.

 

“Is it?” There's a sharp edge to his voice that Andy winces at, and and Matt shakes his head. “No, I don' think it is. He's _inconsolable,_ Hurley. His best friend just d--”

 

“Don't.” Andy cuts him off, and Mix snaps his mouth shut, his jaw tight as he glares up at his friend.

 

“He needs you.” He grits out, his expression tight, and pinched. “They both do.”

 

Andy sits down at the table across from him, slowly, feeling all the weight that had evaporated from his shoulders in the woods start to sink back down. Matt's entire body is tensed, every bit of him filled with his anger, and his frustration, and sometimes, in all his calm, cool, easygoing mannerisms, Andy forgets that this is how he found Mix, furious, and hurting, and ready to destroy the next thing that tried to fuck with him.

 

His head suddenly feels too heavy for his neck, and he leans forward, resting his face in both hands, and letting his eyes slide shut. There's a deep breath, and a creak, as Matt gets up off the bed, followed by a soft screeching sound as he pulls the other chair out, sitting opposite Andy. Its another second before there's a large, warm hand on the back of his neck, not moving, just resting there, and whatever amount of comfort Andy should be taking in that is probably a lot less than he is.

 

“I can't.” He breathes into the wood of the table, and Matt squeezes, gently, thumb rubbing over the base of his jugular. “I need—” He breaks off, and Mix sighs.

 

“I know.” He murmurs, and leans forward, resting his forehead against the back of Andy's head. “I know, babe.”

 

They stay like that, for a while, just breathing, together, until, eventually, Mix sets Andy's phone down next to him on the table, and stands up.

 

“The funeral's on Thursday, at Woodcrest.” He says, with a note of finality, because Matt has two modes, friend mode, and business mode, and Andy is now firmly being shifted into the business category.

 

Andy figures that makes it easier for him, and nods.

 

“You should come. Even if you don't--” He cuts himself off, and shakes his head. “Just. You should come. Five o' clock. Thursday.”

 

Andy looks at Matt, and Matt looks at Andy, and Matt turns, and leaves.

 

The sound of cracking twigs and rustling leaves fades into the distance, and Andy doesn't move, just listens, for a while, before picking up his phone.

 

He opens his voicemail, and closes his eyes, letting it play on speaker, echoing through the cabin.

 

“Hey, babe, where are you? Pete said you just drove away in the truck, but he's not—really making a lot of sense, right now. Call me. Please.”

 

“Hey, I'm on my way home, I—I'm guessing you're there? Matt said he hadn't seen you. We tried bringing Pete home, but he couldn't...we—he's at Bill's. I'll explain at home. I love you.”

 

“Where are you?”

 

“Where the fuck are you?”

 

“Andy, please, just—just come home. Please.”

 

The last one ends with a choked off sob, and Andy slams his hand down on his phone, trying to press the end button, and succeeding in cracking the screen in the process.

 

He stares at the split picture of Joe on their bed, hunched over his acoustic that's set as his background until the screen goes black, and then reaches out, holding the power button until the phone turns off.

 

He doesn't eat dinner, that night, and when he wakes up at two in the morning, sweating, and reaching blindly for Joe, he's not there.

 

–

 

_Andy gets in his truck, and drives._

 

_He drives until he's long out of the city, until the houses and towns have fallen behind him. He drives until he runs out of road, until he's at some dead end in the middle of the woods, and then he screams._

 

_He sits in the front seat, with his fists slamming the steering wheel and his entire body shaking with a kind of hurt he's never felt before, and roars, loud, and rough, letting every piece of pain and heartache and tension that's built up in his body out until his voice is hoarse and there are tears streaming down his cheeks._

 

_Patrick's gone._

 

_The sun is still shining, and the world is still turning, and Patrick is **gone**. _

 

_Andy doesn't know how he's ever going to stop screaming._

 

–

 

He goes to the funeral, and watches them from afar, the curve of Pete's back when he kneels over the grave, and the way Joe holds himself, the picture of controlled grief. He wraps his arms as tight as they'll go around Gabe, and stares at the stone that's supposed to be all he has left of Patrick, and leaves.

 

He's always hated funerals, ever since his dad died, and in a way, he thinks it's pointless to have tried.

 

Patrick's gone. Watching two underpaid migrant workers lower him into the ground in a pine box isn't going to give Andy closure, and neither is crying over his headstone.

 

He walks the long way back around to the truck, and he's back at the cabin by nightfall.

 

It doesn't feel like coming home, but it doesn't feel like getting farther away, either, and he doesn't light the lantern, tonight.

 

Instead, he lies in the dark, and listens to the sound of the forest, and thinks about the way Joe's curls had been plastered to his forehead in the rain, and the space next to Pete where Patrick should have been.

 

–

 

“ _Andy, I—I have lung cancer.” Patrick says to his shoes, and Andy's entire world crashes down around him._

 

“ _You don't smoke.” He says, immediately, automatically, and Patrick makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob._

 

“ _Yeah, well.” He shakes his head, and leans against the edge of the kitchen counter. “Apparently that doesn't ward off genetic predisposition.” They're silent, for a minute, with Patrick's hands tucked under his arms and Andy staring at the countertop and waiting for something, anything, to happen, for Patrick to laugh and say it was a practical joke, for the apartment to start to disintegrate, for the world to end, because Patrick's dying, and that's the only logical progression of events._

 

“ _I'm—I can't--” Patrick chokes off, and when Andy looks up, there are tears streaming down his cheeks, and his shoulders have started to shake. “Andy--”_

 

_There's no pause, or hesitation, there's just the way Andy steps forward, and opens his arms, and the way Patrick falls into them, face pressed into the front of Andy's shirt and arms wrapped tightly around his waist. His entire body is trembling, wracked with unrestrained sobs, and Andy can feel tears starting to prick at his own eyes, as his stomach starts to twist itself into knots._

 

“ _I don't wanna die.” Patrick rasps, and Andy slides his hand up to curl his fingers into his hair, pressing his nose against Patrick's temple._

 

_There's nothing to say, to that. There's nothing to do. There's just how close Andy can pull Patrick to his body, and how tightly he can hold him there._

 

–

 

The woods are thick, and hot, the early June heat beating down on them from above, and Andy can feel the humidity as it sinks into his skin, walking bare chested and barefoot through the trees. There are twigs cracking under his feet, and he's probably going to get poison ivy or something, but it's worth it.

 

Each little clearing he passes through lets the sun shine bright on his back and shoulders, and each pass of the wind through the forest is a welcome reprieve on his sweat-damp neck.

 

He trails his fingertips across the bark of an oak tree that's been alive for longer than he can probably process, and wonders if he could stay here, forever.

 

 _You can't_ , Patrick's voice whispers in his ear, and if he closes his eyes, Andy can almost imagine him there, walking beside him across the soft dirt and grass, hands in the pockets of his jeans and glasses sitting high on his nose.

 

He stops in another clearing, a bigger one, with a large outcropping of rocks by the center, and climbs up on top of the biggest one, lying back and letting the sun warm his chest and legs. There are birds singing, across the forest, blackbirds and orioles tweeting to each other and echoing off of branches and trunks.

 

“I miss you.” He whispers into the silence, and the sounds, and to the Patrick-shaped hole in his chest, and the wind rustles its reply through the grass, rustling his hair as it goes, and he remembers Patrick's hands, long fingers and wide palms that were always warm, even in the dead of the Chicago winter.

 

–

 

“ _You should clean up around here.” Andy says as he sidesteps a chest-high stack of records, and Patrick glowers at him from behind his slowly diminishing mountain of CD's._

 

“ _Really. Should I. Should I, now.” He grouches, and tosses another one onto the 'new-age bullshit' pile. It's a little building, and Patrick has to share with a bookstore upstairs, so his record store will only really be one big room. It doesn't look like much, at the moment, a whole lot of stacked vinyl and a few piles of CD's spread across the floor, and two or three shelves in the dimly lit, dusty room._

 

“ _You really think this is going to work out?” Andy asks, and Patrick looks up at him from where he's sat on the floor, surrounded on all sides by music and shelving, and raises an argumentative eyebrow._

 

“ _You think I can't do it?” He challenges, and Andy looks at him, at this little five-foot-six, twenty year old guy who last week tried to drink rotten root beer out of a keg, and smiles._

 

“ _You can.” He looks around, at the walls coated in peeling yellow paint, and the grimy front windows, and the bell on the door that doesn't ring, and nods. “You definitely can.”_

 

–

 

It's raining, again, and the water drips down through the little holes in the roof of the cabin as Andy shaves, using a straight razor he found in an insulated box on the top shelf, and the soap he brought with him. There's no real mirror, in the cabin, so he uses his phone, holding it up and glinting the black screen off the dim light. He likes the beard, he does, but Pete hates it, tells him he looks like a scary garden gnome, so he shaves.

 

He finishes, finally, and begins to clean up, making the bed, and putting away the lantern and matches, packs up his clothes, and pots, and pans, and starts to hike back down the mountain.

 

He doesn't look back at the cabin, or return to the creek, or take one last walk through the woods. He just follows the path down to where he parked the truck, and tosses his bags into the back before starting it up, and turning around.

 

Andy drives for about five hours, without stopping, and when he pulls up outside the apartment, it's dark out. It's dark, and silent, and there's no sign of Joe, so he puts his bags down in the front hall, and heads back out, making a beeline for Bill's, because if he can't find Pete, he can at least find Joe.

 

He stands outside the door, with the drizzling rain slowly making him more and more damp, and his hand shakes, slightly, as he knocks, because he knows William, and he knows he's welcome, but he's also been gone for three weeks, and that changes things.

 

The door opens, and Pete turns fully to face him, smiling wide, and joyous, an expression which quickly dissipates as he recognizes Andy, replaced by a little bit of fear, and a lot of anger.

 

“Pete--” He starts, and Pete's entire body stiffens, as he cuts Andy off.

 

“Fuck you.” He spits, and slams the door, and Andy really, really can't blame him.

 

He stands there, for another minute, and waits, again, because someone's bound to come, eventually, and sure enough, Gabe opens the door a second later, looking, in a word, worried.

 

They look at each other for a second, and Andy tries to say all the things he wants to say to Gabe but can't with his eyes, every thank you, and every bit of pride for how Gabe's taken care of everyone, for how Andy _knows_ he must have, and Gabe nods, and steps aside.

 

Andy walks up inside, through William's front hall, and freezes at the archway between the hallway and the dining room, because there's Joe.

 

There's Joe, standing at the end of the table, eyes wide, and shoulders tight, with his curls falling over his forehead and his chewbacca tank top that's been cut halfway down his ribs, and Andy doesn't know how he made it this long without him.

 

He aches to move forward, to throw himself on Joe and cling to him until he's forgiven, until Joe stops _looking_ at him like that, with that pain in his eyes and that tensed jaw, like he's ready to scream, but he doesn't. He stays as still and as silent as he can and waits, because sometimes, this is what Joe needs. Sometimes, Joe needs him to wait.

 

And he does, he really does, right up until Joe starts to move around the end of the table, and then every single bit of resolve drains out of Andy's body, and he's all but _running_ across the room, while Joe does the same, crashing into each other like polarized magnets, and _this_ , this is what home feels like. Home feels like the press of Joe's chest against his, like Joe's hair under his fingers and Joe's arms around his waist and back, the way he can feel Joe's heartbeat against his own.

 

Joe's breathing is shaky, and uneven, harsh gasps that say he's about to have an attack, and Andy squeezes him tighter, presses his nose into the hair at the side of his head and squeezes his eyes shut.

 

Joe shifts back, and kisses him, long, and hard, and when they pull away, he moves his hands up to cup Andy's cheeks, their faces less than an inch apart, and Andy wants to crawl inside Joe, wants to stay as close to him as he can for as long as Joe will let him.

 

“Don't leave.” Joe rasps, every syllable shaking as his body does the same, and Andy slides his hand down to hold the side of his neck, and shakes his head, his eyes stinging.

 

“I'm sorry.” He whispers, and presses his forehead against Joe's, bumping their noses together the way he used to in bar bathrooms and the backs of vans when Joe was young, and rough around the edges, and needed Andy there just to survive. “I'm here. I'm sorry.”

 

“I love you.” Joe's breaths are ragged, and pained, and Andy kisses him, again, once, twice, to calm him down, fingertips stroking over his jaw in soothing motions.

 

“I love you.” He murmurs back, and all he wants is to stay this way until the day he dies as he shifts forward again, burying his face in the crook of Joe's neck. “I love you.”

 

 _Marry me_ , he thinks, but holds onto it, because he'll ask, he will, and Joe _will_ say yes, but not now.

 

Not yet.

 

–

 

Walking up Wililam's stairs to the guest bedroom is the most difficult thing Andy thinks he's ever done, including hiking up 90 degree angles and getting trapped under ice.

 

Each step feels heavy, and thick, like he's wading through mud, and when he gets to the top, the light streaming out from under the door is anything but inviting. As he gets closer, Andy can hear voices, or, more specifically, Brendon's, soft, and deep, and smooth, like it so often isn't, and he can't quite make out what he's saying, but knowing Brendn it's something uncharacteristically comforting and intelligent.

 

He pushes the door open, and Pete's sitting on the edge of the bed, with his head between his knees, and his fingers curled tight in his hair. Brendon's next to him, rubbing a hand up and down his spine, and when Andy walks in, he looks up, and stares at him for a second, before nodding, and standing up. He presses a kiss to the top of Pete's head as he goes, and Andy watches the way Brendon's fingertips graze over Pete's hair, like letting to is a struggle, and Andy can really, really relate to that.

 

He stops as he leaves, and hugs Andy, briefly, kisses his cheek, and closes the door behind him, and then they're alone.

 

Pete doesn't look up, and Andy doesn't say anything, because there's nothing for him to say, right now. Instead, he walks over, and sinks down in front of Pete on the floor, reaching out to rest his hands on Pete's knees, smoothing his thumbs across the rough fabric of his jeans.

 

Pete's silent, for a long moment, breathing hard, knuckles white against the stark black of his hair, and Andy remembers, faintly, that it was blonde, when he left.

“You were supposed to be there.” Pete grits out, and his voice is rough, and harsh, and pained, and it sends stabs of guilt into Andy's stomach. He slides his hands up, fingers settling over Pete's in his hair, and nods.

 

“I know.” He whispers, and Pete jerks up, away from him, eyes red and still streaming tears.

 

“ _You were supposed to be there.”_ He shouts, face screwed up in pain and anger and everything he's completely justified in feeling for Andy, right now, and Andy reaches up, framing Pete's cheeks between both his hands, pushing up enough that they can make eye contact.

 

“I know.” He repeats, and shakes his head, pulling Pete down until he can rest their foreheads together. “I know. I'm sorry.”

 

Pete lets out a strangled sound, and his hands come up, jerkily, mirroring what Andy's own are doing, fingertips pressing into the sids of his head and neck, thumbs digging into Andy's cheeks, and Andy closes his eyes.

 

“I needed--” Pete breaks off, breathing hard, and his hands slide down, holding the sides of Andy's neck. “I needed you here.” He breathes, and his shoulders start to slump, his grip on Andy beginning to lighten. “My—my husband died. I needed you here.”

 

Andy swallows, thickly, and tilts his head up, pressing a long kiss to Pete's forehead, fingers sliding up into his hair.

 

“I'm here.” He murmurs, just like he did to Joe a minute ago, and Pete slides down off the bed, into Andy's lap, wrapping his legs and arms around him like a koala. Andy slides his arms down around Pete's waist, and presses his face into the junction of his neck and shoulder, and breathes deep.

 

They stay like that for a long, long time, pressed as close as they can get, breathing hard, until Pete pulls back, wrists resting on Andy's shoulders, fingers brushing over the cropped short hair at the back of his head. He's still crying, but less, now, just a few little tears trickling down his cheeks, and when he looks down at Andy, his expression keeps shifting between fondness, and muted grief.

 

“You shaved.” He mumbles, and scrapes his thumb over the little bit of five o'clock shadow on Andy's jaw, and Andy smiles.

 

“I did.” Pete grins, for a second, and then wavers, face twisting up again, and Andy pulls him close, again, fingers curling around the backs of his shoulders.

 

“I'm supposed to go back.” Pete gasps, and shakes his head. “I can't go back.”

 

Andy presses his cheek to the side of Pete's head, and closes his eyes.

 

He's not sure if he can, either.

 

–

When all's said and done, and they've gotten Pete settled back in at the apartment, Andy and Joe go home.

 

Andy's bags are still in the front hall, and Joe looks longingly at them for a second, like he's thinking about unpacking them, but Andy pulls him away, toward the bedroom, and Joe doesn't complain.

 

As soon as the door's closed, he can't help but press Joe against it, lips finding his in the dark, palms pressing against Joe's hips, and sliding up over his sides, his chest, pulling off that stupid tank top and dropping it unceremoniously on the floor while Joe does the same with his t-shirt.

 

It's been three weeks since they've seen each other, and even longer since they've had sex, and in the morning, there'll be more apologies, and more things to fix, and Pete, and Patrick, and everything else, but for now, it's just this. It's just them.

 

Joe tilts his head back and rests it against the door, and Andy mouths his way down his neck, tasting Joe's skin like he hasn't in too long, as he works on getting his jeans open. Every inch of Joe is smooth, and soft, and Andy doesn't understand how much he missed this until just now, until they're pressed together, with Joe's mouth sloppily finding his, and Joe's fingers in his hair, tilting his head back to lick into his mouth.

 

By the time they get to the bed, they're both naked, and Andy has to stop, for a minute, hovering over Joe with his hands on either side of his head, because Joe is so fucking _beautiful_ , pale and lanky, stretched out underneath him, and Andy can't breathe, for a second.

 

“I love you so fucking much.” He breathes, and Joe's hands find his hips, pulling him down until their flush against each other and they both make soft, sweet sounds, every inch of skin on skin suddenly so hot and so perfect, and later there'll be a time for slow, languid fucking, for relearning every inch of each other and learning how to be close, again, but now isn't that.

 

Now, Andy reaches down between them and jerks Joe off in slick, speedy strokes, kissing him over and over until he's too far gone for that and can only hold Andy close by his hair, and breathe into the space between them, harsh, and hot, and when he comes its with a rough twist of his hips, and a cry, tilting his head to bite down on Andy's shoulder hard enough to make him hiss.

 

He rolls off, onto his back, and immediately reaches down to do the same for himself, achingly hard and sweating and so fucking _overjoyed_ , but Joe shifts onto his side, and pushes his hand out of the way, leaning over with his lips against Andy's ear and setting up a hard, fast rhythm that makes Andy's hips twitch and his whole body shake as he comes, reaching up and curling his fingers into Joe's hair so he can pull him down and kiss him, long, and slow, and wet.

 

They lie there, for a long time, legs tangled and arms thrown haphazardly around each other, kissing, and bumping noses, and breathing in each other.

 

“I missed you.” Andy murmurs, and Joe's eyes slide shut as he squeezes, gently.

 

“Don't leave, again.” He whispers, and Andy shakes his head.

 

“I won't.” And he means it.

 

After a few more minutes, he gets up, and stumbles to the bathroom, finding a clean washcloth and wetting it, wiping the drying cum off his stomach and chest, and finding another one for Joe, because Joe needs his own, always has.

 

When they're both suitably clean, and dry, Andy pulls the comforter up over them, curling around Joe from behind with his arm wrapped tightly around his waist, and his leg hitched up over Joe's thighs. Joe curves back into him, fingers finding Andy's and twining together over his chest, and Andy presses a soft kiss to the back of his shoulder, and closes his eyes.

 

“Marry me?” He whispers, and Joe doesn't stiffen, or twitch. Just stays quiet for a second, and then turns his head back, squeezing Andy's fingers as he looks up at him.

 

“Of course.” 


End file.
